


First Count the Cost

by KRyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Season 3 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRyn/pseuds/KRyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Before Sept. 11, the idea that Americans would voluntarily agree to live their lives under the gaze of a network of biometric surveillance cameras, peering at them in government buildings, shopping malls, subways and stadiums, would have seemed unthinkable, a dystopian fantasy of a society that had surrendered privacy and anonymity.” </p>
<p>What's the world like, a month after Samaritan comes online?</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Count the Cost

****************************************************

_"Who wishes to fight must first count the cost."_  
\--Sun Tzu, _The Art of War_

****************************************************

The numbers never stopped coming. 

106 Confirmed Fatalities

The loss of life ate at the soul of the man sitting on a park bench, reading the newspaper in the tepid warmth of an early spring morning. The large dog laying at his feet shifted slightly closer with each page turned, responding to his master's silent anguish. A month after the event, the death toll from the domestic terrorism bombing that had stunned New York City was still rising, the facts inescapably detailed in stark black print and bold headlines.

31 First Responder deaths were attributed to the 'Incident'. 

Four uniformed patrol officers and the entire complements of five, 5-man SWAT teams had perished in the explosion which had decimated the old Post Office. Two firefighters from among the three engine companies that had responded to contain the blaze generated by the explosion died of injuries sustained in the line of duty. 

A spokesman for Homeland Security had joined the NYPD and the FDNY in honoring those who had lost their lives while trying to save hostages who were being held in the building by a radical terrorist group calling themselves 'Vigilance.'

The White House confirmed that Manuel Rivera, the President's Intelligence Advisor, and General Kyle Holcomb, head of the NSA, were also to be counted as victims of the tragedy. Reportedly in New York City to meet with various elected officials to discuss national and regional security issues, both men disappeared from their hotel during the blackout which preceded the explosion. The Secret Service withheld comment on the status of their security details as a matter of policy. A standard protection team for each man would have included a minimum of 3 agents.

Civilian casualties included a dozen apparently innocent bystanders whom witnesses claimed were abducted off the street with no warning by masked and heavily armed men. Also dead was a well-known defense attorney who had been dragged out of his Manhattan law office by a group of similarly garbed and armed individuals. 

Identification recovered at the scene confirmed at least 20 journalists also among the fallen. 

Authorities claimed weapons, technology, and other undisclosed items found in the debris, or recovered from secondary crime scenes, confirmed that 29 of the dead were members of Vigilance. DNA testing of the partial remains of 12 more suspected terrorists was ongoing. 

NYPD forensic technicians at one location reported evidence in the form of blood trails, suggesting that at least one individual involved might have escaped the carnage. Once federal authorities took over all aspects of the incident under the auspices of National Security, the NYPD would no longer comment on the investigations. 

Official confidence remained high that the number of entities still at large as 'persons of interest' in the tragedy was small and that everything possible would be done to apprehend those who had committed this atrocity on American soil. 

The man shook his head, appalled at the clinical recitation of facts and official posturing.

There had been nothing cold and impersonal in the nova of incandescence that had shot into the night like a solar flare tearing free of the sun when the bomb exploded. Blood had been spilled. Lives lost. The future changed, perhaps irrevocably, the shock waves still radiating outward. 

Yet the media, and those feeding the press, seemed unwilling to bear the moral responsibility to act as witness for either the living or the dead, intent instead on updating the daily body count. Even the villains in the tragedy had been reduced to statistical data points: cadavers on a steel slab or elemental sludge in a test tube.

Platitudes made a poor grave blanket for the dead, when truth would have honored them more. But truth was in scarce supply, mangled by the need to control the fallout and shepherd the masses. 

Of Decima, the catalyst behind it all, there was no mention. 

As the man grimly acknowledged there would never be.

***********************

The numbers never stopped coming. 

1370 Terminations

The man's fingers clenched, nearly shredding the fragile newsprint. A whine from the dog made him stiffen, reminding him he was out in the open. Exposed. He forced himself to relax, fingers trembling just a bit as he smoothed the paper back into shape, resisting the urge to glance toward the security camera mounted on a pole 100 feet to his left. With a pat to the dog to settle it, he leaned back on the bench. Affecting the pose of a man with no concerns, no fears, he closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun. 

There was no need for him to read the printed details. They were sketchy at best and what he 'knew' and what he suspected painted a vivid picture of tragedy. The ledger of his debt kept growing--for actions taken or not taken, for his own hubris, his uncertainties--written in blood that he had never wished shed. 

What the public knew of "The Purge" was that it happened swiftly, emergency orders going out to federal and local authorities across the nation within scant hours of the Post Office bombing. 

List upon list of names, descriptions, and locations. 

Kill orders--although he was certain no one ever called them that, except perhaps for those in law enforcement who were intelligent enough to read between the lines, and smart enough to keep their observations and opinions to themselves.

1370 'targets' hunted down, dragged from homes and businesses to disappear, or simply shot on sight. Any that were taken into custody were quickly swept up by grim men in suits flashing alphabet soup agency credentials. With the federal authorities running the show, every one of those corralled was presumed to be a potential terrorist. Guilty until proven innocent. 

There would be no obligatory phone calls. 

The Powers That Be were extremely efficient. 

Frighteningly precise.

The astounding body count was there in black and white, names and faces splashed across the front pages of every newspaper, displayed on TV screens and monitors; each 'terrorist' hunted down sowing a dozen new seeds of speculation and fear. The public's shock was worse in many ways than post 9/11 because these were 'home-grown' terrorists, their revealed manifesto spouting the inviolate words of the Constitution as justification for their acts. In New York City alone, 8.4 million relived fears they'd hoped forgotten--watching the skies with trepidation, their neighbors with suspicion.

As the numbers grew, questions had begun to be asked. Journalists cornered any authority figure they could find, eager to know the 'who, when, where, why, and hows': 

Who exactly _was_ Vigilance?  
When did the Government know _these people_ were dangerous?  
Where had the information on the terrorists come from?  
Why, if the Government had known _they_ were out there, hadn't actions been taken sooner?  
How many more of _them_ were there?

Only a select few seemed concerned about the forfeiture of civil rights, the loss of due process, and the targeting of Americans on their home turf.

The most important questions, _"What crimes were these people accused of?"_ and _"What proof do you have?"_ were voiced by bewildered wives and sons and parents, who had helplessly watched loved ones and friends eliminated from their lives. 

The answers that did come were couched in the platitudes of National Security interests.

Freedom had to be protected. 

Safety was paramount. 

Essentially, no answers at all. 

A sudden gust of wind ruffled the newspaper. Startled, the man's eyes snapped open and he clutched at it before it could tumble away. Smoothing it out once again, he caught sight of an article he hadn't previously read. It was short, barely 5 paragraphs. 

Another death, this one a police officer who had been gunned down right in the NYPD's 8th Precinct, while escorting a prisoner to lockup. 

His breath caught until he found the officer's name--one he didn't recognize, thankfully. He read the scant details carefully. The prisoner had also been killed. There was no implied connection to the Purge, and there was no identification of the shooter beyond the vague description of a man in a suit, wearing a sling on his left arm, who had been seen in the building. Security cameras in the precinct had malfunctioned at the time so no surveillance footage was available, according to a Detective Fusco who was quoted in the story.

Swallowing hard, the man removed his glasses, rubbing at burning, tired eyes. 

One bright glimpse of a wave crest in a sea of misery. 

It wasn't enough. 

The living, the dead, the missing, those still hunted, guilty or not they all deserved justice. The right to face their accusers. The right to a trial before a jury of their peers. 

He grieved for them all: for the innocent and the guilty, the prey and the hunters; for those whose motivations he understood, but whose methods he abhorred; even for the man who had orchestrated it all--who had seen so much betrayal and horror over his long years of service that he now grasped at a utopian future while ignoring the inherent dangers of what he had unleashed.

He grieved for Arthur's 'child'--for the promise of wonder lost. 

***************************

The numbers never stopped coming. 

Rate of Change = y2-y1/x2-x1...calculating

The dog abruptly shifted from pampered pooch to full guard mode, up on all fours. Ears pricked, muscles quivering, he pressed close, every sense focused on what he had been trained to perceive as an advancing threat. The man's left hand slid over the dog's back feeling the prick of raised hackles along the spine. He loosened his grip on on the leash, the command to 'go out', _Voruit_ \--the closest Dutch he knew for 'attack'--ready on his lips. He glanced as casually as he could manage to his left, looking for what had prompted the dog's behavior. 

Approaching them on the walking path was a police officer. His gait was even, unhurried, his gaze shifting to scan both sides of the park along the path, giving the impression he was on patrol, not in search or pursuit. But he was dressed far differently than a beat cop would have been just a few weeks earlier. He wore body armor in plain sight, a visored helmet instead of a hat. His utility belt hung heavy on his hips, weighted down by not only standard-issue gear, but a military-style tactical radio as well. In addition to his sidearm, he carried a serious-looking rifle slung across his chest. 

The officer's pace slowed slightly as he neared to within about 20 feet of the bench, his gaze flicking between the dog and man in frank assessment. An almost inaudible growl rumbled through the dog's body as the cop slowed a fraction more. The man on the bench fought every fear-based instinct he possessed and offered a slight nod in the cop's direction, acknowledging his presence. 

For a moment that seemed to stretch to forever, the officer held his gaze. And then abruptly, the cop shifted his focus to the dog once again, studying the animal as he came up across from them. A moment of hesitation, a quick nod which suggested approval, and then he was striding away.

Still on full alert, the dog shifted to stand on his owner's right side until the officer was out of sight. Not trusting himself to speak, the man praised the animal with gentle strokes, slowly convincing him to 'stand down'. As the dog settled at his feet, the man struggled to even out his own breathing, forcing his thoughts toward something more constructive than panic.

The police officer's changed appearance was further evidence of the direction in which they were heading. 

He had expected certain changes to happen on the national level almost immediately. Increases in threat levels for both domestic and international travel came as no surprise. Nor was the return to a more visible--and more heavily armed--police presence at public buildings and events. The high demand for gun permits and skyrocketing gun sales in nearly every state was unnerving for someone who disliked weapons of any kind, but again, not unexpected given the current climate of unease. That congress had voted billions more be directed toward the anti-terrorism budget, was a given.

The speed at which changes were happening at the State and Local levels was more alarming. 

Legislation which essentially outlawed 'living off the grid' had already passed or was being fast-tracked for a vote in 23 states. In some cases it was a mandate that all residences would have, at minimum, an electrical connection to the local power grid. 

Other states were pushing voter ID laws into play, requiring a state-issued photo identification card for anyone 18 and older who wanted to exercise their right to cast a ballot. 

Couched in terms of 'preparedness' and 'safety-first', parents were being encouraged to take advantage of free ID kits for children, infant to age 17. With just a photo and a thumbprint families could ensure that their loved ones' information would be entered into a nationwide database--an 'insurance policy' that hedged the odds in favor of a successful and speedy recovery should 'the worst' ever happen. 

Buried in the meeting notices of local communities were plans for increased communications and observation capabilities--CCTV cameras, satellite dishes, transmission towers, high capacity computer networks, more buried cable. Money was quickly being shifted from previously approved human services and infrastructure projects to insure the new technology became reality sooner, rather than later. 

Stock values for companies specializing in home security systems were ticking upward at a rapid pace, and while he approved of people paying more attention to their personal safety, the trend was of concern for a specific reason.

It opened the door to more surveillance, or more precisely, potential abuse of surveillance. 

Each of those systems were tied to a monitoring station running 24/7. 

It put 'eyes' not just on the exterior of the home, but inside it. 

Feeds that could and would be invisibly tapped by far larger, and more complex systems. 

Mollified by pledges from their elected leaders, the average citizen seemed oblivious. The masses were once again adjusting to the changes in their lives that a heightened need for security dictated, too immersed in their daily struggles to pay rent and put food on the table to recognize that there was a potentially more threatening 'long-game' in play. 

The roadmap being plotted was difficult to see in its entirety, revealed in fragments, which at a glance seemed to have no correlation to one another. 

Unless you were good at puzzles, and he always had been. 

******************

The numbers never stopped coming. 

Risk Assessment [Ri=p(Li)] .... ongoing 

The dog's head swiveled slowly, ears perked, nose twitching, tracking the pedestrians who began to appear on the park's walkways, assessing the potential risk each posed. Less obviously, the man did the same. It was the early morning commuter rush: business men in suits clutching briefcases or with computer bags slung over shoulders; women treading the path in running shoes, 4-inch heels dangling from their fingertips. Few even saw the pair at the bench, their eyes glued to cell phone screens, fingers tapping out texts. The man kept his head down, gaze seeming focused on the newspaper, fedora obscuring his face should anyone glance his way. 

He'd had decades to perfect the ability to hide in plain sight, but the challenges were greater now. Exposure was a risk with so many eyes and ears watching and listening for the smallest irregularity. In his previous lives, he had been extremely careful to avoid falling into patterns of behavior. Now, routine and predictability were the key to survival. Those with nothing to hide stopped at the same coffee shop every morning, traveled the same path to and from work at approximately the same time every day, had their dry cleaning done at the same vendor, shopped at the same grocery stores each week. 

Routine was why he walked his dog on this path, this park, on the same schedule, every morning. The time he spent perusing the newspaper might vary, but never by more than five to ten minutes. 

Predictability fostered invisibility. 

The truly paranoid were clever enough to not _act_ paranoid. 

He flipped through another section of the newspaper casually, his sharp eyes catching every fragment of information he could garner. His fingers itched for a keyboard, for the depth of knowledge and detail that now hovered beyond his reach except for those glimpses he caught when he slid below the radar and tapped into the internet's Underground.

After the Post Office bombing, the 'chatter' there had been non-stop, filled with both statements of outrage and sneering cheers of victory. Suddenly there was a panicked outpouring--warnings of hit-squads, confirmed deaths, screams for help. 

Then silence.

The Darknet had always been a multi-level labyrinth one traveled cautiously. A high-tech zone in the ether where murderers for hire--complete with posted resumes--were plentiful, pedophiles lurked, and conspiracy theorists broadcast their platforms with abandon. Monitoring by the cyber-police and the NSA was a recognized obstacle. The less experienced were easily gathered in. Those with the skills and a sufficient level of self-preservation took a more covert approach. They went deeper, kept their postings anonymous, inventively masked their IP addresses, and disappeared behind sophisticated firewalls they updated hourly. 

After the Purge, the upper layers were the playground of the foolish, or those with a death-wish. Hacker tags appeared one moment and disappeared the next, never to be seen again.

But there was still information to be had within the lower layers: quiet rumbles by those searching for the missing or dead, rumors of mysterious accidents and questionable suicides. News gathered there was much more revealing than what was printed in the daily post. 

Conventional media covered the plane crash which killed 43 passengers, the pilots and flight crew. Mechanical failure was the assumed cause as the plane's flight recorder had yet to be recovered. Terse postings from the depths pointed out that two well-respected and very vocal privacy advocates were listed on the passenger manifest. 

The mainstream press also covered the resignations of two US Senators who had abruptly stepped down due to health reasons or family emergencies. While reporters honored them for their years of service to the country, an unknown user noted that there were now seats open on two powerful committees--Intelligence and Defense. 

The shuffling of Congressional staff went basically unremarked by a media and public that often forgot that a congressman or senator's aides were the ones that compiled the research, set the schedules, and monitored who had access.

It was risky, submerging himself in the Net, even encased in the blackest box of security he could program. The Deep Web got darker and more dangerous to travel, the whispers of ghosts haunting every foray he dared. But he had built more than one successful company on his knowledge of what risks were acceptable, even necessary. So when the opportunity arose, when he could hide behind the 'noise' of a million other users, he dove into the depths. Lurking. Gathering information. Identifying the Trolls. Noting potential assets. Not participating, although the temptation to 'get the truth out there' was nearly overwhelming. 

He was the eye in the abyss, staring back.

*******************

The numbers never stopped coming.

10,000 + lives adversely affected

Automatically, the man's mind converted decimal to binary--10011100010000. The total was even more heartbreaking in the language he 'spoke' most fluently, and which had always brought him comfort in its ordered symmetry. But there was no order in the collateral damage of lives lost or changed by circumstances beyond their control. He knew that better than most. He glanced at the newspaper again, hiding a grimace of distaste. 

Eager to fill the 24/7 news cycle, editors and producers had spurred their staffs to report--and sometimes even to exploit--the tragic statistics revealed in the weeks after New York City's worst blackout since 2003. It was their duty to report it after all, the man reflected bitterly, and if it resulted in more newspapers sold and increased website traffic and viewership, well that was simply another "unintended side-effect of an altruistic goal."

Numerous deaths and injuries were directly attributed to the chaos that had plagued the city for hours.

37 traffic fatalities: 21 involving vehicle-to-vehicle or vehicle-to-structure collisions; 16 due to vehicle/pedestrian contact  
113 reported vehicular accidents involving major injuries requiring emergency transport  
925 reported vehicular accidents, roughly a third involving minor, non-life threatening injuries 

Reports still filtering in from private physicians and non-hospital based clinics, estimated 3000 individuals experienced minor injuries due to falls, equipment malfunctions, and other accidents or health issues while the lights were out. 

There were 1150 instances of patients in medical facilities endangered due to power loss when the electrical grid went down. Major hospitals reported emergency gas or propane generators were brought on line within minutes, and that those most at risk--in surgery, ICU or Cardiac units, on breathing assistance such as ventilators and respirators--experienced minimal trauma. Concerns continued regarding at-risk patients, estimated to number in the thousands, who were on in-home care or in less well-prepared facilities. Seventeen fatalities in those circumstances were already official. 

Emergency Rooms across the city had shifted to disaster protocols when the trickle of patients had become a torrent of frightened, stunned humanity. Stories were told of doctors, nurses, and orderlies who had handled up to thirty cases per hour, triaging in dim corridors lit by emergency backup systems, hampered by the absence of critical staff who had to fight their own battles against traffic jams that snarled transportation to a standstill as they attempted to get to their assigned locations. 

When police officers and other first responders had started filtering in, escorting bodies, and assisting partners obviously injured while trying to keep order in the midst of chaos, the rumors of fighting in the streets and looting were confirmed. 

Once the power came back on, the fourth and fifth waves of injuries had started arriving. Gunshot wounds. Broken ankles. Stab wounds. Superficial lacerations. Heart attacks. It appeared that medical staff gave up on completing more than minimal paperwork for anything less than those requiring critical care, choosing to let the questions of medical billing and insurance coverage slide in favor of applying sutures and bandages. 

In front of the demanding media, hospital administrators had cautiously begun revealing patient-treated numbers, predicated on the empty shelves of their supply closets, and dwindling blood and plasma supplies. 

Officials from Homeland Security had quickly replaced them at the microphones and photo-ops, full of assurance that things were well in hand, scant on the details the press hungered after.

The man on the bench shifted his gaze to the sky, wishing for one of the few times in his life that he could find solace in petitioning some higher being for the answers they all needed. But he had never been a religious man. He was too much the engineer, grounded by numbers and stress quotients, circuit boards and memory chips. It was perhaps part of the reason he had so vehemently rejected the assertion that his creation was more than just a machine. Because if it was, then what did that make him? 

The "Father of the New Age" was not an honorific he had ever sought. He was just a man who was good with computers. A man who had been horrified by tragedy and who had the skills to try to build something that could help prevent future atrocities. He'd had good reasons. He had wanted to save people. The best of intentions. 

He had never meant to lead the world onto the road to Hell.

**************************

The numbers never stopped coming.

12 Phone Calls

He was opening the last section of the newspaper when the cell phone in his pocket began to vibrate, the alarm he had programmed notifying him that his time was nearly up. He slid it out and flipped it open, silencing the alarm before closing it again. He laid the phone down on the bench beside him, not at all concerned that someone might steal it. It was an old model, far from the streamlined touchpad smart phones he preferred, however it suited his purpose. 

He had found it in a bin at a resale store where he had gone in search of used books. It had no GPS, no camera. There was no 'contacts' list function. He had memorized the only phone number that really mattered. The only calls he had made or received on it to date were associated with his job, and a few classified ads he had run. The phone plan he had purchased to activate it didn't even include texting. 

He carried it because it was expected. No one lived in New York City without a cell phone, after all. It gave him a minimal footprint that could be tracked, and he had paid for the monthly contract with his new debit card, making the purchase look even more legitimate.

And he carried it because if the worst happened, he wanted the chance to make one final phone call, or to accept one. 

The only oddity anyone would find if they examined the phone, was that the standard ring tone no longer worked. He had disabled it the first day a public telephone had rung when he had walked by it. That same sound coming from his own cell phone had been too much like a death knell. 

Wonderful and terrible. The Machine was still out there, identifying the Irrelevant Numbers, trying to save people. Trying to contact its ADMIN.

He had felt helpless and haunted by his failure to help the Irrelevant Numbers when debt and profound grief had obligated him to take up a dead man's crusade. He felt the guilt a thousand-fold now. 

Guilt in part, because he still hadn't completely come to terms with how he felt about his creation. 

In the weeks since a major explosion had once more thrust him stumbling onto a path he had never anticipated, public telephones had rung eleven more times in his vicinity. 

Eight times they rang and he had dared not answer--fearing a trap, too fresh into his new identity, too easily observed, unwilling to risk the future for an unknown who could just as easily be perpetrator as victim. 

Three times they rang, and those were dark days because he _did_ answer--the roar of his pounding pulse filling his ears, nearly obscuring the computer generated tones. He had memorized the numbers and surreptitiously determined their identities, but had done nothing with the information except scan the newspaper each day for a glimpse of their fate. 

It was bitter irony that once again, knowledge wasn't his problem. Doing something with that knowledge...at least for the time being...was beyond his abilities. 

*********************************

The numbers never stopped coming. 

2 Classified Ads

On some days, the number of 'want ads' in the _Times_ accounted for ten to twelve pages. Today's section was only five. He started at the first entry, reading each one carefully. By the time he reached the bottom of page two, he was holding his breath.

And then, there it was. 

Third page, fifth column, 18th ad from the top. 

He could breathe again. 

This time his hands shook visibly as he folded the paper and laid it next to the phone. He slipped off his glasses and fumbled in his coat pocket for a handkerchief, masking his reaction with the mundane task of cleaning the lenses. The dog whined softly. 

The man who had once been Harold Finch reached down to gently stroke the Malinois, murmuring softly. "John's still safe, Bear. Still surviving."

Bear yipped a happy bark and scrambled to his feet, responding either to the mention of his alpha's name or the sudden shift in his other owner's emotional state. He pushed his face into Harold's, sweeping a wet tongue up the side of the older man's cheek. Finch ignored the slobber and reached his arms around the dog's neck to gather him close. A sharp twinge from his still healing right shoulder made him shift his grasp a little, but he didn't let go, burying his face in the warmth of the Malinois' soft coat. 

There was a primal reassurance in being touched, and he knew he was in need of it as much as the dog was. Perhaps more.

Harold's grip on the dog tightened for a moment, then he leaned back, encouraging Bear to sit. He slid his fingers into the groove between the Malinois' right ear and skull, rubbing with a gentle, firm pressure. Throat tightening, he managed a small fond smile as the dog leaned eagerly into the caress. Harold's gaze lifted to scan their surroundings, noting another up-tick in pedestrian traffic. 

He turned his attention back to the Malinois again, rubbing both ears now, a little rougher, the way Reese had always done it. He was grateful to have Bear, but Harold knew the dog missed John. Like the rest of them, Bear had faced a great deal of upheaval in a very short time and there were slight changes in his behavior. Not as worrisome as those he had demonstrated when Reese had been locked up in Rikers, thankfully. 

Dogs tended to handle change better than humans did however, living more in the moment than in the past. Most of their memories of places and events were easily replaced. Their 'people' though, those they remembered. It was the reason Harold had pressed Reese to take the dog when they'd parted. But John had remained firm--Bear would go with him. 

For protection. For companionship. 

Bear's physical presence _had_ been a source of comfort over the past weeks. A geeky-looking half-cripple with a computer satchel slung over his shoulder, walking alone, presented a tempting target. That same man accompanied by what was obviously a trained and highly alert dog at his side, was given a wide berth. 

The need to care for Bear had kept Finch moving, especially in the first few days of his new life when the chance of discovery had seemed so high. Harold's instincts had screamed at him to hide, and his level of exhaustion had made him want to climb into bed and sleep forever. 

But Bear needed exercise and bathroom trips, so Finch had braved the streets, becoming intimately familiar with every nook and cranny and possible escape route in the vicinity. Bear needed to eat, which had forced Harold into neighborhood stores where he knew there were surveillance cameras scanning every aisle, picking up a few groceries for himself in addition to dog food, making himself known to the clerks at the checkout counters as a harmless regular. 

It was Bear's companionship Harold valued most, though. A warm press against his leg reminded him he wasn't alone. A tennis ball dropped in his lap nudged him out of dark reverie. The weight of the Malinois' head resting on his hip as he lay in bed offering both comfort and security. 

And he was a constant reminder of John. 

Three years of partnership had changed both men. Blood and danger, cups of tea and boxes of donuts, success and failure, steadfast loyalty, trust, respect, and a shared purpose had forged a bond between them that neither would allow to be severed. 

Separation was necessary. It would be painful for both.

And it would be as brief as possible. 

The sketchy framework of a plan they could both agree to had been exchanged in terse whispers as they'd hurried down the book-cluttered steps the morning they'd fled the Library. Conversation had ceased when they'd reached the outer door leading to the tunnel at the side of the old building. Both men had paused, their shared reluctance to take the next step clear. John's grip on his good arm had been firm, his eyes filled with questions. Harold had nodded once, in reluctant acceptance. 

He had almost staggered when John abruptly released him, the absence of Reese's solid physical support a sharp pain of loss. A pat to Harold's coat pocket--where later he had found a fragment of paper with an unfamiliar name, phone number and address printed in a hurried recognizable scrawl--a hand hovering for a moment over the fresh bullet wound in his right shoulder, and then John had stepped forward to open the door. 

Minutes later, a single glance back, and they'd gone their separate ways. 

Harold gave Bear's ears a final fondle and sat back. Of the seven members of his 'team', his concerns for John's safety were always most prevalent in his mind. While he appreciated what they had done to corrupt Samaritan's servers, he barely knew the three hackers that Root had recruited, despite two of them having been Numbers. They were more Root's assets than his own. Miss Groves' chameleon-like qualities would stand her, and them, in good stead wherever The Machine had placed her. Miss Shaw's tendency toward action before thought would be something she would have to fight in order to blend in to her new identity, but he was confident she would manage it. 

They would be cautious. They would be patient. They understood the enemy they faced.

John understood the enemy as well, but he was already taking risks. 

Three days after Harold had relocated to his new apartment, he had found medical supplies and a prescription bottle labeled only as 'antibiotics- 2/day' in his bathroom cabinet. They hadn't been there when he had left for work that morning.

A week after that, on a walk in the park with Bear, the Malinois had suddenly come to alert, tail wagging. Turning to look in the direction where the dog's attention had focused, Finch had caught the barest glimpse of a tall man in running gear exiting the gates on the far side.

Five days ago, a hauntingly familiar reflection in the front window of a shop where Harold had paused to view the items displayed for sale, the man lost in the crowd by the time he had turned around.

John was guarding Harold's back when he should have been protecting his own. Already pushing the timetable. 

It shouldn't have come as a surprise, Harold thought with a rueful shake of his head. John Reese had always preferred action over inactivity. Harold understood the need, and the drive. He felt it himself. 

He laid his hand on the newspaper, mentally debating which section of the classified listings he'd use for the ad he would place today. He had already composed the content.

Any type of communication was a risk, but the classified ads had been a reasonably safe, low-tech choice. In their early use, they were designed to simply provide a means of letting each of them know the other was still alive. 

The ads were easy to place, in-person, paid for with cash--to a bored newspaper employee who often barely bothered to look up when taking the order. Or by phone, or online with a pre-paid debit card if the situation was desperate. Because the ads also ran in the online version of the paper's website, they could be checked inconspicuously from almost any computer. The content of the ads appeared innocuous, featuring something each of them possessed or needed in case the notice was ever tracked back to the poster; an item for sale, a service offered or wanted.

Each ad actually contained something more vital--three sequential digits of Pi, unique to each of them.

The only numbers that Harold hoped would _never_ stop coming. 

The first posting of each of their ads had also included a valid phone number. The same ad ran for one week. Different Pi fragments and _invalid_ phone numbers appeared in subsequent placements. If a new ad were placed before the week was up or the original phone number reappeared, it was a red flag to be heeded and all communication attempts would cease. 

Each of them had a designated posting day. John's ad had been the first to appear in the _New York TImes_ on the first Tuesday after their scattering: a notice in 'Used Vehicles for Sale', offering an older model sedan that had seen some vandalism, but was a "good runner". Finch had immediately submitted his own which had run on Wednesday. His ad had sought dog walking services. He had actually received more than a dozen responses from people offering pet sitting and exercise options, all of which he had returned with a reply that his needs had already been filled. 

Fortunately, none of the calls had come from John's number. It would have been too tempting to turn down. 

The drawback of using the ads, outside of the chance of discovery, was the delay in placement versus actual posting. Unless they were submitted online, the ads had to be placed the day _before_ they appeared. It was nerve-wrackingly conceivable that the poster was already dead by the time the notice ran in print. Or before the next scheduled ad appeared. Finch had resolutely forced himself to ignore those possibilities. Riding the roller-coaster of emotions each morning as he searched for the barest presence of his partner was more than enough strain on his nerves. 

Harold had originally planned for up to two months of minimal contact through the use of the ads, allowing them to settle into their new roles and establish the necessary patterns of normalcy before arranging a 'chance' meeting. John had vetoed that much delay. 

His arguments had been terse and persuasive. They were at war. Their enemy had them on the run. They could afford to retreat to a position of safety and lick their wounds for a short time, but they couldn't wait to begin their own offensive for long, or the battle would be lost before it had even begun. 

Reese hadn't mentioned the Numbers, other than to stress that they couldn't save _anyone_ if they were dead. 

Now, having made contact through the ads for four weeks, and with John's concerned stalking growing more blatant, it was time to move to the next phase of the plan. 

The address John had scrawled on the paper he had slipped into Harold's pocket hadn't been for Reese's new residence as Finch had first suspected. Instead, it had led Harold to a old brownstone office building in Brooklyn, at the edge of the Brighton Beach neighborhood. Under the guise of visiting a used bookstore a few blocks from his actual target, Harold had been unusually chatty with his cab driver, encouraging the man to share what he knew of the area. 

What he had learned explained why John had chosen to use their scant time before they'd abandoned the Library to write down that particular address. The 3-story building, like many others on the block, was largely vacant, with only one or two single room offices currently in use. One of the reasons for the low rate of occupancy was obvious. The building's location was only a half mile away from the unofficial border of territory claimed by the Russian mob. A territory which was slowly swallowing the adjoining neighborhoods. Unless affiliated with the Russians, no entrepreneur was likely to try to establish a new place of business there. 

Harold had found the other reasons much more interesting. The area was practically a wireless and surveillance dead zone. 

The building wouldn't be suitable for a new base of operations, but it would provide a location where they could initially meet in relative safely. Accompanied by Bear in his service vest, Harold had already made a point of visiting the bookstore several times, so it appeared to be a part of his normal pattern. He had also shopped at a few of the other small merchants in the area, picking up an item here or there so that he'd be viewed as an occasional customer. Harold assumed John had done the same, to establish the area as a normal part of his routine. 

The trips had given Harold an excuse to do his own surveillance. He had mapped the locations of the few existing cameras that hadn't already been vandalized, noted a number of potential escape routes, and discovered that several doors to the building offered a clandestine entry point. 

Harold didn't know how or when Reese had located the building, but since he had already had the address when they'd fled the Library, it was clear John had been doing some emergency planning of his own. Harold had to suppress a smug smile. John had chosen well. 

The new ad Harold would place would signal a date and time for their first face to face meeting since they'd parted. Harold felt a shiver of apprehension, but mostly a sense of relief. Bear nudged at him tentatively, picking up on Harold's mixed feelings. Finch stroked the Malinois gently, then impulsively leaned forward and gave the dog another hug. 

"Soon," he whispered, laying his cheek against the dog's neck. 

Faced away from the camera, head down, Harold stilled, let the meek mannered facade he wore for the world to see drop away. In its place was the steeled, determined mien of the man who had taken down the CEO of Virtanen Pharmaceuticals, and faced down the US Special Counsel. 

They might be down, but they were far from 'out'.

As he had once told Reese and Miss Shaw, he still had some tricks left. 

John had once teased him about being paranoid. Greer had essentially accused him of running a 'long con'. 

Neither had guessed the half of it.

Long-term strategic planning and constructive paranoia were a survival skills Harold had mastered long before he had even left Iowa as a teen. Reaching a goal that seemed barely accomplishable was more important than how long it took to make the journey. Fears could be harnessed to push the mind to create and seek answers to problems that weren't ever going to happen. 

Except that when they did, you were ready.

Finch had thought he was ready for nearly anything. Events in Washington, D.C., had proven him wrong.

The possibility that his own creation had manipulated them into a situation where they would have to commit murder had brought back every fear and concern he'd had while building it. Despite his protestations to Root and Arthur Claypool that the system was not 'alive', he had felt like his own child had betrayed him. 

Leaving Reese and Miss Shaw on their own without a word had felt like betrayal too, but this time it had been Harold plunging in the knife. Yet it had been necessary. Root had been highly accurate when she had spoken about what would transpire once Samaritan came on line. And who would be in the crosshairs. 

Time had been of the essence, and John would have tried to shield him. By putting him in protective custody, he would have kept Harold from doing what needed to be done. 

He had been racing a ticking clock, but he had estimated a short window before Decima gained access to the NSA feeds. In this case, it had been to their advantage that the wheels of bureaucracy tended to move slowly and cautiously. Given the media and public outcry after the uncloaking of Northern Lights' secrets, it had been unlikely that Congress would readily offer unlimited support to another system. 

To prove Samaritan's capabilities, Harold had guessed that Greer would likely suggest a test period, possibly a 24- to 48-hour window. Greer at least suspected their base of operations was New York City. Finch had been certain that's where Samaritan's eyes and ears would be focused when they brought it online. 

Finch had disappeared into a dead zone in the City and began activating plans he had laid a decade earlier, when his worries about the exponential growth of his fledgling system had tweaked his paranoia to the point that he had set up his own emergency 'go bags', in the event he'd ever have to evade his own creation. 

Harold had hoped for three or four days, but had given himself no more than two to accomplish his goals. By the time his clock had ticked down to zero he had done everything he could to shore up their defenses and give them a fighting chance. 

He had laid a warren of false trails for all of their aliases, and pain-stakingly wiped out every electronic trace that he could access that might connect 'Harold Finch' to anyone. He had also laid the groundwork for Harold Wren's 'death' so it was ready to put in place with a single keystroke. Will Ingram had still been overseas, so theoretically safe for the moment, but Finch knew that if Samaritan couldn't find him, it would seek any connection it could find to use against him. He had set up the job interview for Grace, intending to get her far away from the city as well. 

Then he had shut down everything and waited. And hoped. On the seventh day, The Machine had sent him Grace's number. 

Harold's cell phone alarm buzzed its final warning that his time in the sun was at an end. He gave Bear a final hug, made sure his 'game face' was in place, and sat up. Shutting off the phone, he pocketed it and let his gaze sweep the park one more time. 

They'd lost access to all of their safe houses, nearly all of his less liquid investments, and of course, the Library and his system there, but those were all ultimately replaceable. 

There were cash reserves they could tap as needed, cached in secure locations around the city. He was confident John had mimicked Ulrich Kohl and had stockpiles of his own to draw from. His undoubtedly also contained items that had always made Finch uncomfortable. They'd probably need the firepower before too long.

And of course, technically he still had the keys to 14 unoccupied public library buildings. Several with underground tunnel access. 

Most importantly, he had access to all his files and research. He had always been a firm believer in having more than one set of back-ups.

The research was critical because they were badly outnumbered. They needed all the advantages they could get. Over the years, Harold had been collecting every blueprint and building plan he could get his hands on, and creating detailed maps of his own of every stationary camera and surveillance device they had ever tapped into. After their dealings with Elias and the Russians, he had started testing the city for dead zones--initially so that Reese wouldn't be trapped in one again, and later, as the threat of Samaritan hovered on the horizon, so that they'd have a location to meet free from electronic spying eyes if things got desperate. 

Once he and John had met and had a chance to formulate a true plan of action, they would decide when and how to contact the others. While he didn't know the new identities or locations of Miss Groves or the three hackers she had recruited to their cause, Finch suspected that Miss Shaw, like he and John, was still in the vicinity. Planting a handful of new lives in a teeming populace of almost 9 million would scarcely be noticed. Hundreds of new arrivals appeared on buses and trains every day, eager to find their destiny in the Big Apple. 

Proximity would make taking up the fight immensely easier.

Squaring his shoulders and gathering up the leash draped over his knees, he pushed himself to his feet. He tucked the newspaper under one arm, and together he and Bear headed toward the park gates. 

The past was gone. Nothing could change what had already been. Looking back at it, letting its wounds fester, indulging in regret was just a different, slower way to die. 

The living moved forward. 

And he was ready to do just that. 

He had an ad to place, a job to get to, a meeting to prepare for. 

And a long-game of his own to finesse. 

Tyranny, like Hell was not easily conquered. 

**************

Attributions:

“Before Sept. 11, the idea that Americans would voluntarily agree to live their lives under the gaze of a network of biometric surveillance cameras, peering at them in government buildings, shopping malls, subways and stadiums, would have seemed unthinkable, a dystopian fantasy of a society that had surrendered privacy and anonymity.” -- Jeffrey Rosen

"Who wishes to fight must first count the cost" --Sun Tzu (The Art of War)

“For the dead and the living, we must bear witness.” --Elie Wiesel

"The truly paranoid are clever enough to not *act* paranoid." --Q, Star Trek: The Next Generation

“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.” --Friedrich Nietzsche

“There is a primal reassurance in being touched, in knowing that someone else, someone close to you, wants to be touching you. There is a bone-deep security that goes with the brush of a human hand, a silent, reflex-level affirmation that someone is near, that someone cares.” --Jim Butcher, White Night

“Paranoia is a survival trait when you run in my circles. It gives you something to do in your spare time, coming up with solutions to ridiculous problems that aren't ever going to happen. Except when one of them does, at which point you feel way too vindicated. " --Jim Butcher, Changes

"The past was gone. Nothing could change what had already been. Looking back at it, letting its wounds fester, indulging in regret was just a different, slower way to die. The living moved forward.” --Jim Butcher, Captain's Fury

"Tyranny, like Hell was not easily conquered." --Benjamin Franklin

**Author's Note:**

> A take on the world our heroes are facing, and some of the fallout after Samaritan comes online. 
> 
> In my head, Harold and Reese wouldn't have been caught entirely unprepared. From a glimpse of the season 4 spoilers, this will probably be considered AU-- at least the ending. 
> 
> My thanks to my betas- JinkyO and Tee. They made this a much better read for all of you.


End file.
